


soul in all its forms

by subwaywalls



Series: ... in all its forms [5]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Consensual Daemon Touching, Dream Smp, Gen, more characters tba - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subwaywalls/pseuds/subwaywalls
Summary: Acts of intimacy within acts of war.(Or: Four times Dream broke the daemon taboo, and one time he didn’t have to.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: ... in all its forms [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922980
Comments: 32
Kudos: 165





	1. ARSON

**Author's Note:**

> me, nudging all my other fics behind a wall: what do you mean i have other things i should be writing

When Dream shows up to the base with not just a declaration of war on his lips but also a plan of attack in his hands, Sapnap realizes that they’re fast approaching the point of no return.

“This is it, then,” Sapnap says, half questioning, half eager. He looks at the marked-up map laying flat on the table, and then back up at Dream. “There’s no going back now.”

Dream pauses for a beat, fingers worrying the edge of the map. “Well,” he says, picking his words carefully, “for us—technically, if you want to stay out of this, you still can.”

Sapnap rolls his eyes. At his side, he feels more than hears Mars chuff a laugh. “You’re so stupid,” he tells Dream, leaning into the warmth of his daemon leisurely. Her shepherd-husky form is plenty sturdy enough to hold his weight, so he doesn’t feel bad about it, especially since she’s already stealing most of their seat. “How’re we supposed to let our best friends go to war without us?” he continues.

From Dream’s shoulder, Patches ruffles her wings. “This is serious,” she insists. “Just because _L’Manchild-burg_ is making all of its members fight doesn’t mean we’re gonna make all of Dream SMP chip in.”

“Did you miss the ‘best friends’ part?” Mars asks, tilting her head to the side. 

“No,” Dream says, “but—”

“But nothing,” Mars says, like that’s all that needs to be said—and it is, really. Their friends are going to war against a fledgling nation, and they can use all the backup they can get.

Honestly, Sapnap and Mars have been itching for a good fight for a while now. This lull between manhunts while they and their friends explore this new world has been pleasant, but… boring, too.

He can tell that Dream and Patches aren’t convinced, though. On some level, he’s touched that they care so much, but he also wants them to know that Sapnap and Mars aren’t the type of friends to take a step back just because the road’s going to get a little rough and risky. 

There’s no good way to explain how he feels, not if even _best friends_ won’t seal the deal. Sapnap looks to Mars helplessly, and she shrugs as best a dog daemon can.

“We’re not going to hold back,” Dream says, as though that’s a warning and not all the more reason to join. “We’ve already farmed up a lot of explosives, gathered materials…” 

Mars flicks an ear, distracting Sapnap from Dream’s rambling. _They’re nervous._

Sapnap blinks, and squints a little closer at Dream. He doesn’t really see how they’re nervous about putting a couple of kids back in their place. Nothing about the way Dream’s talking or holding himself implies that he’s anything other than confidently comfortable in his position as a warlord.

_Oh, you know human are better at faking it than daemons._ Mars turns her head to press the cool tip of her nose at his hand, faintly admonishing. _Look at Patches._

Sapnap looks, but she seems fine as well. Not a feather is out of place on that golden eagle form as she preens Dream’s hair, smoothing down everything that got ruffled when he pulled down his hood.

… Except she doesn’t usually bother with that, because it won’t be long before Dream pulls it back up again. That _is_ odd.

_Exactly._ Mars lays her head on the desk, but her tail thumps a few times to emphasize her point. _She only does that when she needs something to do, which only happens when they’re nervous. Or scared. But they’re probably not scared._

Sapnap knows what they’re like when they’re scared—Patches whirling around to sink her talons into anything that dares to approach, Dream simply _refusing_ to go down—and this isn’t it. 

Anxious is a good word for it. And it does make sense, because this is their first time waging outright war against relatively new friends. Untread ground is always a little unsteadier than the beaten path; they have to feel out what’s pushing it, what’s too much or too little, what will give them the win without razing the world they’d so carefully brought to life.

_You know what we could do?_ Mars flashes him a grin and sends an idea, something poignant and wordless that nearly punches the air from his lungs. 

Instinctively, Sapnap wants to recoil from the concept, because it’s insanely bold for what’s essentially just a conversation, but… 

_We want them to trust us—well, they already trust us—we want them to have faith in us. And this is the most direct way._

“At least Prot’ IV armor,” Dream is saying, as Sapnap rolls his shoulders back and takes a steadying breath. “We won’t outgear them, Tubbo and Spirala have been teaching and reteaching librarians to enchant books for weeks now… Mars? What are you doing?”

Mars is getting up, comfortably stepping over Sapnap and climbing onto the table. “You wanna know how serious we are, right?” she says. “We can show you how serious we are.”

“You’re going to smear all the writing on the map,” Patches complains, gently batting at Mars’ muzzle with a wing. Her touch is feather-light, mindful of how much power she can exert with even a single beat of those wings. “And you don’t have to prove anything, we get it, really.”

“Do you?” Mars says, and licks Patches’ feathers in the wrong direction just to hear her squawk in annoyance. “Seriously. Let us prove it to you.”

Dream—who’s pulled his hands in as Mars approaches, because she is very close, practically up in his face as she walks over the map—looks over at Sapnap, and then back to Mars. “And how do you plan on proving that?” he says, very clearly entertaining them.

With a grin so wolfish it would be more fitting on Mars, Sapnap says, “So, you know how when you don’t want someone to touch your daemon and they do and—”

_“Sapnap,”_ Dream says, scandalized.

“—both people feel really gross about it? But that’s only because the person doesn’t want it.”

Patches flaps loudly to stop him from continuing, and interrupts with a shrill, “You’re asking us to break the _taboo_ with you? You don’t—there’s no need for that!”

“Maybe not,” Mars agrees, “but we _want_ to.”

Dream stares at her incredulously, and yeah, Sapnap gets it. Touching any daemon but your own is a big no-no without permission, because that’s someone’s soul you’re laying your hands on. 

Thing is, Sapnap’s giving him permission. He wants Dream to know that this war isn’t anyone dragging them into anything. It’s Sapnap and Mars’ decision to follow them wherever they go, whatever path they choose. 

Something in Dream’s gaze softens. “You’re one hundred percept sure,” he says.

Sapnap’s tongue gets caught, momentarily, on the renewed realization of how deep a declaration of trust this is, but Mars has him covered. “Just fucking do it, man,” she says fondly, leaning in to poke the center of Dream’s mask with her nose. The porcelain is cool to the touch, and though it’s not skin on skin, it’s devastatingly close. Sapnap can nearly feel it.

A vaguely flustered sound leaves Patches, and she flutters up form the table back to Dream’s shoulder. 

There’s enough of a quiet delay that Sapnap opens his mouth again, about to say that it’s fine if they don’t want to. 

Dream moves before he can, though. He has always gone to great lengths to cover every inch of his skin, so that even in the roughest moments of their manhunts, he would never lay a hand on the most vulnerable side of his friends’ souls. Now, with Mars’ tail thumping on the table and her confidence unwavering, Dream pulls off one glove. 

He pauses there. Patches twitters uncertainly from his shoulder, wrinkling the shoulder of his sweater with her talons. If she’s not careful, she’s going to tear the fabric to shreds.

Sapnap’s heart picks up pace in his chest, anticipation shuddering through a long, shaky sigh that slips out from his lips. “Here,” he says abruptly, reaching over to grab Dream’s hesitating wrist. It’s a bit of a weird position, having to stretch over Mars to do so, but he doesn’t regret it; Dream is shaking, faintly. “You won’t hurt us.”

“You don’t know that,” Dream and Patches say together, a synchronization born of soul-deep worry. They’re so dramatic, honestly, it warms Sapnap and Mars’ hearts. 

“We do,” Mars replies, as Sapnap brings Dream’s hand slowly closer to her. 

He gives Dream plenty of time to yank out of his hold if he wants to, but he doesn’t. So he pulls his hand to the tip of her ears, and—

_—trust, trust, trust—_

—Dream’s hand jerks, a gasp ripping from Patches’ beak, but his fingers still curl into Mars’ fur as she squeezes her eyes shut and focuses on—

_—devotion love and trust, look: the sun rising on your watch while we sleep, look: our backs to yours, look: swords and axes whistling down, look: we’ve fought so many times for laughter, look: we’ve saved each other even more, look: look: look: we will win this with you (we would love nothing more)—_

—Dream pulls away, shaking, saying, words already tumbling clumsily from his lips. “Okay, okay, that’s—wow. Um.” He blinks, and Sapnap realizes, belatedly, that his eyes look a little watery. “That’s a lot.”

Mars shies away now, retreating to Sapnap’s side and curling close like a living heater, and he’s thankful for it. He feels… sensitive. Overexposed, like a bunch of live wires.

Regardless, he clears his throat. (It’s—weird, like he walked off a cliff expecting to fall, only to find clouds buoying him up every step of the way.) “So,” he says. “Like I said. No going back.”

Dream snorts, and then laughs. Patches looks at Sapnap with something not far from longing, and says, “I guess not.”

And if they walk a little closer on the way out, shoulders brushing when Dream hands him iron and flint, Patches hopping down to perch on Mars’ solid shoulders, they say nothing more about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream: Patches, golden eagle (she/her)  
> Sapnap: Mars, German shepherd husky mix (she/her)  
> Tubbo: Spirala “Spins”, bee (she/her)


	2. APATHY

Ender pearls are tricky business. 

They’re incredibly useful, of course, both for eyes and for teleporting out of dangerous situations. The only issue is that the thrower only teleports with what they’re holding, and if that doesn’t include their daemon, then—well.

It’s not a great position to be in, suffice it to say.

As far as George knows, Dream is one of the very few who are comfortable with pearling at the speed that he does. Sometimes he throws the pearl before Patches even perches on him, meaning it is very much a gamble of what will land first, the daemon or the item, and George often finds his heart dropping out the pit of his stomach for them.

He and Beckerson prefer to play it a little safer, thank you. They’ll give up a little speed to ensure that Beckerson has her tail wound around his ankle before George risks tearing himself who knows how far away from her.

But sometimes—sometimes it’s hard to judge, through a layer of armor, whether or not they’re close enough. 

Sometimes, they’re in the middle of a skirmish.

The L’Manburgians have been pushing at their borders for a while, viciously defending their high-standing walls and the land around them, and Dream SMP has been working around the clock to stop them from invading.

That’s how George understands it, at least. Their opponents  _ say _ they’re not looking to expand, but a single look at Dream’s unyielding posture and the way Patches clicks her beak at them is more than enough to say that they don’t believe that.

So here they are, George clanging his sword against Fundy’s shield, Beckerson hissing and spitting at the other’s fox daemon at their heels.

Cordy has already drawn blood from Beckerson, her sharp fox teeth managing to nick Beckerson’s ears, but Beckerson’s exacting her revenge with a snarl and a flash of unsheathed claws.

The claws rake down Cordy’s nose, sending her yipping and skipping back to Fundy’s other side just as George manages to step inside Fundy’s defense and use the hilt of his sword to deal a heavy blow to his head. 

Fundy stumbles back with a grunt, but his eyes flash with determination. They’re too close range for either to pull out a bow, but his pitiful iron sword suddenly shifts into a much more dangerous diamond axe—George, without a shield on him for this particular conflict, immediately backpedals.

Beckerson weaves between his legs as they try to gain a little breathing room to pull out a long-range weapon, but Fundy and Cordy have regained confidence and are advancing relentlessly now, and George would  _ not _ like to die here, thank you. He whips around, netherite sword vanishing in favor of an ender pearl, and with Beckerson as a warm weight at his ankles, he throws it.

The thing is, that doesn’t stop Fundy’s attack.

On instinct, George flinches away from the whistle of air against the diamond axe as it comes down, stepping away. Beckerson, acting on the same reflex, withdraws as well—which leaves the shimmering pale blueish blade to thunk into the ground between them. 

The pearl is already on its downward arc now, and too late does George realize what’s been done. Even Fundy filled with aggression, seems to falter for just a beat.

Beckerson wheels towards George again, jaw parted with his name halfway out of her muzzle, and then—

Magic flashes, taking him away, and space twists in an instant to dump him on the ground in a forest across the plain, far from the ruckus of battle. Immediately, nausea floods through him, and he chokes on that pain rising in his chest, gagging on the distance between him and his daemon, tearing up from the strain.

He needs to get back. Beckerson is too far away, he  _ needs _ to get back, they can’t—he can’t breathe, his legs fold under him and he doesn’t have the strength to walk or stand or do anything but shudder as their bond  _ screams _ with the agony of being stretched. It hurts like he’s burning, it hurts like he’s dying, like each inhale is as useless as a breath into the void, like the numbness spreading from his extremities is his soul draining out through the distance between them.

Beckerson is too far for him to even know if she’s going through the same thing. He has to  _ assume, _ and he’s never had to assume anything about his daemon before, and it’s awful. It’s losing himself, it’s digging his fingers into the ground and feeling none of it, it’s curling up as though that will stop his heart and ribs from falling apart, a broken bone grating against itself with no hint of reprieve.

Time turns to molasses, cruel and slow, as George tries to make himself breathe with his daemon too far away from him. It’s unbearable, Atlas’ burden shunted onto the shoulders of an unsuspecting mortal, his lungs too tight and his blood too hot in his ears, everything uproaring with the sense of  _ wrong, wrong, wrong, _ a crescendo of agony that has him keening into the dirt.

And then it stops.

It stops, but the aftershocks linger. A different kind of wrongness comes to his attention, for a moment, but it’s not the same—it doesn’t hurt, it feels… safer?—and it fades before he can fixate on it, anyway. 

George sucks in a shuddering breath. The world around him is a blur through his teary eyes, but he knows his hands are being folded over a shaking bundle of fur: it’s Beckerson, meowing plaintively as she kneads at his chest. Their hearts are beating in sync, like they should be. He squeezes her closer. She doesn’t protest.

Slowly, the turmoil begins to settle. 

Someone is talking. “You’re okay,” the voice says, urgent and soft and filled with very thinly veiled panic. “You’re okay, you’re okay. George? Beckerson? I—we got here in time, right? You’re going to be just fine, we got you.”

George does not trust his voice to stay steady, so he doesn’t speak. Neither does Beckerson, though that might be because she’s busy crowding ever closer, as though trying to fit herself back into him, the same way mobs keep their souls tucked under their skin. 

They’ve never envied them before—how lonely an existence, to be so one with a daemon that they share a body and can’t separate whose thoughts are whose—but maybe now they understand the pitying looks the villagers will spare them, sometimes.

A soul outside a body is a fragile thing.

Very carefully, a hand settles on George’s shoulder. “Hey,” says a voice they recognize as Dream, and George takes a steadying breath. He let himself be maneuvered into an upright sitting position, leaning heavily against his friend.

“Hi,” Beckerson says to George’s shirt.

“We’re sorry,” Patches says from a slight distance, and George cranes his head up to see her. She’s on the branch overhead, just barely pushing at what would be considered a normal maximum range for a daemon to be. “We should’ve warned you.”

George scoffs despite himself, and Beckerson uncurls a little bit. Her paws still tremble lightly from where they’re braced against his ribcage, but her ears are perked back up again, at least. He says, “You weren’t the one who swung that axe.”

“We saw it, though,” Dream says. “We should’ve stopped it. And… I’m sorry. For—for after.” 

Beckerson makes a noise of understanding, and George blinks. The memory blooms across his mind’s eye, at a nudge from his daemon: through the haze of pain, a different kind of discomfort. An accidental intrusion, bare skin touching Dust. That brief shudder of dismay-recognition-trust-safety that shot through them, nearly lost in the violent aftermath of the separation. 

Oh. That.

George finds his gaze drawn to Dream again, and the way his armor and clothes cover most of his skin. Blood splatters discolor both his thick sweater and enchanted armor, nearly concealing the bloody gash torn into Dream’s forearm.

He imagines, for a moment, the scene in Dream’s perspective. (How terrifying, he wonders, to see your friend’s daemon collapse with her human too far away—terrifying enough that you don’t check for improper covering before picking her up and pearling closer, desperate to fix them.) 

“How did you even get that?” George says, instead of  _ I thought the taboo was supposed to hurt.  _

Dream winces. “Tommy got a lucky swipe on me, earlier on,” he says, but George hears,  _ I know I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry. _

Beckerson flicks her uninjured ear, and finally, tentatively, steps off of George. “You’re losing your edge, if  _ Tommy _ can land a hit on you,” she says. Or, unspoken,  _ we’re fine. You didn’t hurt us. _

There’s a flurry of motion, and Patches drops down to Dream’s shoulder. She’s very close to George too, like this, with Dream being the only barrier between them. She says, as Beckerson steps carefully over Dream’s pants to sniff a greeting, “It was our fault,” which is a response to both the conversation between the lines and the one being held aloud.

George sighs, after a moment of quiet. “Dream,” he says. “It’s okay.”

“George—”

“We would’ve died,” he interrupts, and that makes Dream quiet down. Sure, they have the lives to respawn afterward, but that would be yet another lost, and each one always chips a little more away from that person. There’s always rumors of rebirths gone wrong; misshapen daemons, or daemons missing altogether. The possibility is small, but haunting. “We’re—Dream, look at me, it’s not that bad, listen—we’d take what you did over missing another pearl any day.”

Dream hums, unconvinced. Patches is more direct and protests, “That doesn’t make it right.”

“You didn’t really have a choice,” Beckerson points out. She turns, casually flicking the golden eagle with the tip of her tail, and returns to kneading at George’s thighs. “Plus it was an accident. And it wasn’t that bad, anyway.”

This draws an incredulous sound from Dream. “Not that bad?” he repeats. “I thought you were going to  _ die.” _

Because touching someone else’s daemon is to open a pathway to their soul, and George and Beckerson had been in excruciating pain at the time. That’s… not Dream’s fault, though. That’s Fundy’s fault.

It must’ve been hard to tell in the moment, though, and George has heard from Sapnap’s smug strutting that he already crossed that line of trust with Dream to absolutely no drawback. 

_ We were really hurting. _ Beckerson rubs her cheek along George’s chin.  _ Is it so much of a stretch for them to think that it was because of anything but their accident? _

Patches hops down from Dream’s shoulder and steps over his bent knees, tentatively leaning over to preen out some of the blood from Beckerson’s fur. She is careful not to touch George, and George is too tired to care.

“You’re such a chicken,” Beckerson announces, pulling her head away from Patches’ sharp but gentle beak with a wince. “It’s not as bad as you all are making it out to be. Bet you I can do it again, easy.”

“That’s a stupid bet,” Patches informs, but George’s daemon is already reaching a paw out.

Dream exhales sharply, an affectionate and exasperated kind of sigh.

He still meets her halfway, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream: Patches, golden eagle (she/her)  
> George: Beckerson, British shorthair cat (she/her)  
> Fundy: Cordyceps “Cordy”, red fox (she/her)


	3. BETRAYAL

The path to the control room is a pretty tight squeeze, just enough to feel cramped without feeling trapped. Eret had carefully constructed to be wide enough for everyone and their daemons to move through and not a centimeter more.

If anyone asks, it’s because they hadn’t wanted to leave too much of a mark; larger builds, no matter how well hidden underground, are always easier to find. It definitely isn’t because of the— _ other _ stuff planted near the surface. Definitely not.

Nobody asks, though, maybe too desperate to question anything. Eret leads the way, counting themself lucky that none of the L’Manburgians have exceptionally large daemon forms; the biggest of the lot is Tommy’s Harold, who simply waddles along right behind him instead of trying to walk side by side and constantly bump into the wall.

Ted, curled as always around Eret’s neck, has ducked under the fold of their uniform. The ferret daemon has been quiet all day, letting Eret take the lead in all interactions. Nobody’s commented on that, either, but again that’s probably just because of priorities. They’ve all been a little busy running at and retreating from the members of the Dream SMP. Of course a small daemon would seek cover for the majority of conflict; why take unnecessary risks?

Besides, daemon and human are one-in-two; any form of address that concerns one is perfectly within the rights of the other to respond. So of course nobody bats an eye when Eret speaks to other daemons on Ted’s behalf, even though normally daemons respond more aptly to daemons, and people to people. 

There’s nothing wrong with Eret taking over the speaking role, strictly speaking. They just lift a hand to Ted and speak aloud what the both of them think, and no scrutiny remains.

(It occurs to them, midstep, how unwell the L’Manburgians know them, to be fooled by something so obvious.)

Regardless: between the two of them, there’s no regret. Some trepidation, yes—and anxiety, worry that the redstone might misfire, or that Fundy’s lingering invisibility may lead to an escape, or that  _ any _ of their current allies have a decent pickaxe ready to go.

Ted’s tail brushes past Eret’s chin, a calming touch.  _ Breathe. _ The daemon draws a long breath, and Eret follows as compelled to by their bond.  _ You’re starting to look more anxious than excited, and we don’t want to tip them off this early. _

No, of course not. But even if they did let it slip, they’re too deep in the belly of the beast now; these walls are thinner than they look, and the ambush behind them would surely hear if the L’Manburgians cried out in protest, and would intervene.

They recall the sharp gaze of Dream’s daemon, golden eagle form perched high and proud, talons flexing against reinforced armor.

_ That’s right. _ Ted presses a smile into their mind’s eye.  _ Dream and Patches have this in hand. We know this will work. _

_ We know what we need to do. _

The blackstone hall opens up, and the L’Manburgians suck in various gasps of eagerness. Eret tightens their grip on the dirt still in their hand, taken from the blocked-off entrance. 

“The final control room,” they announce, and their voice is steadier than they would’ve thought. Ted’s warmth, curling close around his neck, definitely helps. They gesture at the chests sitting neatly on pedestals, polished wood gleaming in the low torchlight. “There’s a chest for each of you.”

They’ve barely finished speaking when Wilbur’s already cracked open the one with his name on it.

Ted shivers, a trill of nerves tingling down Eret’s spine.  _ No time to wait. Now! _

But their heart is a roar in their ears, Wilbur’s voice washing over them with a puzzled, “There’s nothing in the chests.” Any second now they’ll question, and then realize what’s happening, and Eret reaches out towards the innocuous wooden button to stop it before it can begin.

The dirt slips from their hands and they fumble, Ted sitting up abruptly now, fur bristling with agitation. The daemon hisses in their ear as their hands shake for the button again, “Eret—”

“What’s this do?” Tommy’s voice says, blessedly clear, and then there’s a  _ click. _

There’s the muffled sound of glass shattering from the other side of a wall, and Eret backpedals several steps. 

“Wait,” Tubbo starts, nearly unheard under the sound of pistons activating all around them, “Eret?”

There’s a flash of movement from all sides, gleaming netherite and enchanted weapons, and Fundy  _ screams. _

Eret backs himself into a corner as a canine daemon rams into Cordy, Sapnap right on her tail with his sword alight. Sparks and embers fill the air when he swings and misses the invisible Fundy, but Tubbo is  _ right there, _ and with no effort at all Sapnap twists and stabs—

Pain erupts from Eret’s side, and Ted lets out a shrill of surprised agony, reeling around to bare teeth at the perpetrator. Eret follows the gaze of their daemon and meets the apologetic side-eye of Pumpkin, Punz’s golden retriever daemon. They must’ve been caught on the brink of a sweeping edge; Punz himself isn’t even looking at them, being preoccupied with chasing down a surprisingly nimble Wilbur.

Being nimble isn’t going to save him, though. All the entrances and exits have been sealed, except for the one that Eret is mining open right now.

“Eret,” Ted says urgently, now having no need to remain quiet. “Eret, you’re—we’re still burning.”

They pat absently at the flames licking up the side of their uniform. “It’s fine,” they say, and watch as the vivid green of Dream’s hoodie flashes past in pursuit of Tommy. It’s Patches that gets her talons in her target first, though, and Eret gets a glimpse of her reducing Harold’s lithe neck to Dust before the next beat of her wings scatters his and Tommy’s form altogether.

Distantly, they hear Wilbur suck in a choked-off gasp, a wet gurgle and a heavy splat, and then Pumpkin’s bark of victory, and then Cordy shrieking desperately before the sound of George whooping in victory punctuates her sudden silence.

And just like that, it’s over.

Well. Almost. Eret raises their communicator to their lips, and says to the roar of L’Manburg’s freshly respawned, well and truly defeated inner circle, “Down with the revolution, boys.”

“You  _ traitor,” _ says Wilbur, more awed than horrified, his voice hoarse like his body had only just reassembled itself when he’d pushed it to speak. 

Eret brushes off that little twist of uncertainty in the pit of their stomach. “It was never meant to be,” they say instead, and drop the little device, and crush it under a heavy boot.

The air smells of ash and blood. They feel slightly light-headed, looking at soot stains and splatters of red dotting the room.

“Alright,” Dream says, and Eret looks up to the sigh of Patches calmly cleaning the blood off her talons, “let’s grab their stuff and go. Good job, Eret, Ted. That was—whoa, are you okay?” He reaches out, probably to steady Eret when they sway, clutching at the still-oozing wound.

The problem is that Eret catches themself at the last moment, and Dream hadn’t been expecting that, so he overshoots a bit. This wouldn’t normally be concerning, except that Ted is stretched across their shoulders, which is a little too close to here Dream had been aiming for.

He touches Ted, and—

The recent calm immediately boils into turmoil again, leaving Eret to squeeze their eyes shut as a wave of… discomfort washes through them? No—just surprise, the shock of how deep spontaneous trust can go.

(Just because spies are secret, and secrets are a step closer to truth than most others, a shade closer to the heart. Lying for someone in exchange for something makes trust a little wonky between them.)

—jerks his fingers back, Patches squawking, “Sorry, sorry!”

“Really, Dream?” George scolds, but it’s cautiously light-hearted.

Eret’s heart pounds. Not with the intense violation of a broken taboo (it hadn’t felt like the legends and warnings say it should), but with the burden of every eye in the room turning to them. They don’t look… too dismayed.

Maybe those rumors of Dream SMP being a little looser with the daemon taboo aren’t as insubstantial as L’Manburg thought.

“I’m sorry,” Dream says, echoing his daemon. He takes a respectful step back, and Beckerson moves out of the way for him, since the room’s so cramped. “Are you okay? You look kind of unsteady, and, uh, that probably didn’t help.”

“We didn’t mean to,” Patches says, a little quieter.

Eret gives themself a quick shake. Their trepidation has mostly melted away now, wiped out of mind by the perfect execution of the L’Manburgians and the plan, and also by this unexpected incident. “Yeah, I’m fine,” they say. Ted clambers down from their neck to sit on an arm and press close to their chest instead, listening for their breaths in tandem. “It was just a surprise,” they reassure.

A bark of laughter tears out of Mars, and her tail starts to wag. “Not as bad as you thought, huh?” she says, and ducks her head when Sapnap elbows her good-naturedly.

“Don’t go announcing that kind of stuff,” Sapnap complains.

“Oh, fine, but only because we have better things to announce. Like our  _ victory,” _ she crows, dancing in short hops and trots around Sapnap’s feet. “Dude, we crushed them! It worked so well!”

Pumpkin whoops agreement, stepping close enough to paw at Mars, enticing her into a bout of play-wrestling across the dirty floor as their humans roll eyes and continue picking up loot.

“Not going to join them?” Ted asks Beckerson, trying to smooth the edges of being a freshly returned spy, and the feline daemon snorts.

“They can roll in the blood and dust all they want,” she replies primly. She daintily lifts her paws away from Mars and Pumpkin tousling nearby, as though she hadn’t been clawing out Cordy’s face a moment ago. “I keep myself clean.”

“Must be hard, with two dog daemons, huh?”

Beckerson huffs, flicking an ear. “You have no idea.”

“Don’t start feeling sympathy for her now,” Patches calls out, still perched on Dream’s shoulder. She’s craned her head back to squint at Beckerson, though. “She’s not the one who gets called a chicken and treated like dinner by  _ all _ of them.”

“I would never insult chickens like that,” Beckerson retorts, and even though George is preoccupied with managing his inventory, Eret easily spots the grin spreading across his face.

Patches clicks her beak disapprovingly. “Lying to your kings already, I see. Eret, Ted, don’t listen to Beckerson.”

“I don’t know,” Ted says, a warm and loving weight to Eret’s chest. Something loosens in their heart, the burden of secrecy lifted at last. “I think she’s got a point.”

“We’re revoking your kingship now,” Patches says, deadpan, and Eret laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentioned daemons:
> 
> Dream: Patches, golden eagle (she/her)  
> George: Beckerson, British shorthair cat (she/her)  
> Sapnap: Mars, German shepherd husky mix (she/her)  
> Punz: Pumpkin, golden retriever (she/her)  
> Fundy: Cordyceps "Cordy", fox (she/her)  
> Tommy: Harold, goose (he/him)  
> Tubbo: Spirala "Spins", bee (she/her)  
> Eret: Ted, black-footed ferret (,,,,,,, okay so. in my hc daemons usually identify with the pronouns that their humans don't use, but there are exceptions. like Tommy's Harold! but not Ted. Eret uses any/all of them, and as such, Ted.... Ted prefers none. ideally. don't worry about it.)


End file.
